


In a State of Dreaming

by The_Silent_Writer



Series: Dream [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dreaming, Fate, First Meetings, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Slight Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:36:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Silent_Writer/pseuds/The_Silent_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes finds that he is having strange, yet very real, dreams about a man named John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a State of Dreaming

This was clearly Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had no doubt of this. It was Baker Street, yet it wasn’t. There were fine, very fine details that Sherlock no longer noticed. Certain cracks on the pavement he knew were missing, the ordinary look to the verdure, the lack of artifacts to be seen through uncovered windows. No definition, no clarity. So very boring.

No matter how lucid he seemed, even the great mind of Sherlock Holmes couldn’t withstand the mind numbing powers of sleep.

Looking around, he began to contemplate certain experiments based on varying lengths and conditions of sleep he could conduct. The memory recall of facts from the real world, memorization of images witnessed while asleep, deduction of the reasoning for certain aspects. The list was endless. Something as bland as the mind when hibernating needed a bit of modification.

There was one facet of this faux-reality that Sherlock had yet to grasp and comprehend; a name that was running circles through his mind.

“John.”

John, Jon, Jawn, [Jah-n]… Hebrew in origin, meaning ‘God is Gracious’. The disciple loved most by Christ. The name of countless Kings and Popes, all running together to become one of the most common and utterly  _boring_ designations. It was so  _boring_ , and yet... Each growing moment with the name in his mind and dancing on his tongue, Sherlock could feel his affinity towards it become stronger.

But really, why John? It was such a simple name. Sherlock had no need for simple things. It was the complex that attracted him. So contradictory was his mind as of now. Surely it was simply the happenstance of the situation that made him feel like this. That made him _feel_ anything.

This whole experience was an overload for the sixth sense. The mind’s release was direly needed…

Walking. Walking was much more numbing to the psyche than some commonplace name. Yes, a nice, tedious stroll down Baker Street was exactly what Sherlock would do. Placing, no, forcing one foot ahead of the other, he began to move. Navigating his familiar surroundings was easy enough. Every building was in its proper place, however, the subtle and most critical details were but a façade when looked upon closely. This needed immediate conditioning, and Sherlock would surely see to that once he woke from this hellishly boring nightmare.

Ah, there was Speedy’s, no, Flashes… That assuredly needed fixing. And next to it, and thankfully correct, was the small, oh so happy little flat complex of 221 Baker Street. Oh, what was the huddled mass of human doing in front of 221? Surely, his mind had the decency to let him be alone in his dream state. He walked closer, inspecting the man.

Short, straw-coloured hair disheveled from trembling fingers pulling at it—stress, turning on the acute. Voice, raspy from sobbing—needs further research, look into the correlation of soreness of throats and night terrors. Eyes? Back turned, needs further analysis. Possible constriction of pupils, due to rising stress…

Small… Very small, helpless. Breaking. Wait… Where was his train of thought leading him? Those were not analytical diagnoses. They were in no way scientific. Borderline emotional, maybe, and this was beginning to worry Sherlock.

_Why?_

Oh…

John.

Sherlock peered down at the man with new eyes. Was this the man confounding his mindscape? Yes, he had to be. Who else  _could_ he be?

“How…” Extraordinary. “Dull.”

Extraordinary, really? Hardly. His mind must be slipping into a new state of sleep if it thought that such a simplistic, dull,  _boring_ man could be extraordinary. Clothes, clearly bought at a store of questionable quality. Owned and worn for years, and counting. Obviously of short stature, if measurements of the legs and torso were correct. Of course they were. And oh, proof would soon show itself as the man stood and turned as quickly as his body would let him.

_Oh my…_

What… What had he been saying about this very intriguing, appealing-to-the-eye individual? Looking now at the man, fully being able to see him now, Sherlock felt something inside of him break.

John… He looked so defeated, shattered. The man was  _crying_. Why? Sherlock searched for any possible reason for this, frantically trying to deduce this man named John. All he could find… Was himself. Every reason the man behaved this way was because of him. Trembling body, red, swollen eyes; all because of him.

Why did this realization want to drill a whole inside the cavity that was his heart? He, Sherlock Holmes, was  _feeling_. Why was this man making him  _feel_ so strongly?

Nothing. There was nothing in his vast storage of memory to explain what was happening to him. Someone so simple, so _boring_ should not have the slightest effect on him. But, was he boring? Was John as boring as Sherlock thought him to be? Further analysis on the man was needed.

Holmes tried reaching forward, believing that touch would not betray his findings as his sight had been doing. John’s face remained panicked, trained on Sherlock’s features. Had he noticed slender fingers stretching out to deduce him further?

No.

John was in his own world, his own set of dreams.

The toll of Big Ben rang through the empty Street.

Time to wake up.

Sherlock fixed his eyes on John’s fading visage. He could see the confusion and panic rise on the man’s face. The detective gave a weak smile, despite himself.

“Goodbye, John…” He could hear his dream-mate screaming. Screaming curses, his name… He wasn’t sure.

 

Sherlock took his time in waking. Eyes parted at a snail’s pace, his senses returned even slower. He was surprised at himself. Surprised that for the first time in over two decades he  _wanted_ to sleep. There were too many questions, too many ideas swimming through his head. The experience had so many sensations and details that he had already forgotten. There had been no time to catalogue everything in his Mind Palace.

Frustrating.

He sat up, looking around the desolate, haphazard space of 221B. This was real. Every detail was as it should be, but… Something felt off now. Sherlock’s sanctuary felt empty. Lonely, even.

When he got his thoughts in order, he immediately created a room to store what remained of his dream for later investigation in his Palace.

With a nod, he rushed around the flat. Dressing, brushing, flossing. He nearly ran out of the complex, stopping only for a moment to grab his black, leather riding crop.

How lucky he was that he had taken on a case that gave him the privilege to act out his frustrations on a more than willing body. For now, this ‘John’ would be neatly tucked away for further analysis, notes were sure to follow.

For now, the game was on.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed Sherlock's point of view in this endeavor.
> 
> Have a great day, evening, afternoon, and night!
> 
> -bows-


End file.
